


boys // they like a little danger

by Randomfandoms389



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Jealousy, M/M, Rough Sex, Smut, USUK - Freeform, spadesverse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-20
Updated: 2020-05-20
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:14:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24181168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Randomfandoms389/pseuds/Randomfandoms389
Summary: “he kisses Alfred, right in front of everyone. Square on the mouth and for far longer than was decent. Long enough that Alfred’s breathing even harder than he had been during that match earlier when Arthur finally steps back.”Arthur gets a little possessive.Then he says the wrong thing and Alfred gets possessive right back.(Can be read as a companion piece to 'power and control')
Relationships: America/England (Hetalia)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 196





	boys // they like a little danger

**Author's Note:**

> you can probably tell from the title but I listened to a LOT of marina & the diamonds when writing this

People had been… looking, recently. 

Looking and whispering and it is not so much the _looking_ that bothers Arthur, because gods knew that Alfred was so very nice to look at. That’s fine.

It is the _touching_ that’s the problem.

Courtiers and dignitaries alike, all fawning over his husband and flirting, flashing coy smiles and latching onto his arms like goddamned _leeches_. (Alfred had very nice arms. Arthur understands the urge to touch them, but _still_.)

Alfred hasn't noticed yet, because he's an oblivious lout and Arthur loves that about him, really, but if he has to watch his husband blink confusedly and good-naturedly allow _one more simpering idiot_ to blush and bat their lashes prettily at him and lean on his shoulder after _accidentally_ tripping on the perfectly clear floor, Arthur is going to break something. Several somethings. (First and foremost being their empty little _heads-_ ahem _._ )

In their - meagre - defence, there has been precedent for this sort of thing. Kings and queens taking others into their beds, keeping consorts and harems and whatever-have-you. Arthur has had his own share of inviting looks, whether for his appearance or for his power, he doesn't really care. They have yet to taper off, despite his best efforts, but he's resigned to that. That’s fine too. But well…

Arthur has always been so terribly possessive. 

And it is so easy to be possessive of Alfred; beautiful, darling Alfred who smiles at him like the sun, with blinding warmth and open adoration. 

It’s so easy to fall into his orbit and Arthur has been falling since he met Alfred, since they were children sneaking away from their lessons and hiding up trees from their tutors, giggling behind their hands.

He has nothing to worry about, he knows, not from anyone in the kingdom and beyond, because Alfred was _his_ , body and soul. 

But it’s still fun to remind everyone sometimes. 

  
  


Arthur leans his hip against the pillar, half-hidden in the shade with a perfect view of the courtyard where Alfred’s sparring with one of his men.

There's the usual group of courtiers clustered around the rails of the balcony overlooking the courtyard, ostensibly gossiping but clearly just there to admire the half-naked soldiers going at each other with blunted swords since they aren't allowed in the practice ground proper.

Arthur is, though.

One of the watching alphas calls the match and Alfred swipes the sweat off his brow before grinning brilliantly at his opponent and accepting the offered forearm for one of those companionable arm clasps, complete with obligatory back-slapping. Arthur doesn't bother waiting for the other soldiers to disperse before pushing off his pillar and sauntering onto the grounds. And if he puts a bit more sway to his hips than he normally would, well, who was to know? 

No one stops him; the alphas that he passes merely step aside and bow politely. Some of them stare at his arse (and are promptly elbowed by their companions), but Arthur _was_ wearing a pair of slightly too-tight pants for a reason and willing to let that slide when he's about to cause a bigger commotion in a few moments.

Alfred sees him coming and positively lights up. He breaks away from the small group that had gathered around him and waves with big, excited motions as if Arthur could possibly have missed him. He hides a smile when Alfred nearly takes off someone’s head with the practice sword he clearly forgot he was holding and scrambles to apologise.

Arthur stops a few feet away from the group and Alfred jogs over to meet him, that infectious sunshine smile firmly in place and almost bouncing on the spot with excess energy. He doesn't try to touch Arthur though, clearly being considerate of the danger posed to fine clothes by dust and sweaty skin. Bit of a pity, but no matter. Alfred’s chatting away, bright and boisterous enough that even the sycophants up on that balcony could probably hear him: “- and you never come down to the practice grounds! Did you see my fight? Matt was keeping score and -”

He trails off when Arthur puts his fingers to Alfred’s chin and tugs him down, inwardly savouring the warmth he can feel even through his gloves. There's a scrape along his cheekbone, a slowly darkening bruise on his jaw and Alfred looks _good_ roughed up like that, standing there in nothing but loose trousers and heavy boots. 

“Don't I?” Arthur murmurs, low, and Alfred blinks as if only just realising how close their faces are, blue eyes dropping to his lips for the briefest moment. “I’ll have to come by more often then, love.” 

Then he kisses Alfred, right in front of everyone. Square on the mouth and for far longer than was decent. Long enough that Alfred’s breathing even harder than he had been during that match earlier when Arthur finally steps back. Everyone was staring (and doing a spectacularly poor job of pretending otherwise). The balcony was conspicuously silent.

Arthur tries not to preen.

He doesn't give Alfred time to do more than blink dazedly, just smiles crookedly up at him and pretends he doesn't notice Alfred’s breath hitch. “You aren't busy today, are you.” It wasn't a question. Arthur had checked with Yao beforehand. Of course, he hadn't exactly explained why he was asking, but Yao had still squinted as if _knowing_ that Arthur was planning to do something stupid and being resigned to it.

“Um, no? I- I was just gonna spar with the guys -” 

“I’m sure they can manage without you for the next hour or so.” Arthur loops an arm around his husband’s waist and starts towing him to the stairwell. 

“I… still have to put this away…?” Alfred gestures vaguely to the practice sword he's still holding. He's not protesting his kidnapping though. On cue, Matthew appears at his other side and plucks it right out of Alfred’s lax grip. 

“I’ll take it,” he says, perfectly blank save for the note of mingled amusement and judgement in his mild tone. Arthur favours their Ace with a smile. 

“Thank you, dear. Do let the men know that I’ll return their illustrious leader soon enough.”

  
  


* * *

  
  
  


He does not, in fact, return Alfred. 

“Louder, darling. I think there are some parts of the castle that still can't hear you.” 

Their rooms overlooked the courtyard. Arthur hadn't exactly been planning to drive all their men to cold showers, but Alfred was just so wonderfully responsive, it was hard to resist. 

He shifts his hips, teasing, and Alfred actually whimpers as the head of his cock slides neatly past Arthur’s entrance, catching slightly on the rim. He's kneeling over Alfred’s lap on their bed, fingers tangled in Alfred’s hair to keep his head tipped back. It’s not very omega of him, but Arthur wants to see some of his own marks on his husband’s skin, somewhere too high to be covered by his collar. He considers and then presses his lips to Alfred’s neck, just under his jaw, and starts working on what is going to be a magnificent bruise. It’s only fair. After all, Alfred’s left plenty of marks on him already.

Best to start catching up.

Arthur bites down and tastes the vibration under his lips as Alfred groans hoarsely, hips jerking and shoulders shifting as if he were tugging on the tie wrapped around his wrists. The flimsy fabric was certainly no challenge; Alfred could have torn his way free at any time. (He wouldn't, though. Not yet.)

Arthur leans in to catch the lobe of a flushed ear between his teeth, worries at it even as he rolls his hips, pressing their bodies close. It makes Alfred gasp, give a shallow buck of his hips as his cock twitches slightly where it’s settled along Arthur’s cleft, and oh, it’s a thrill, to have such a powerful alpha falling apart underneath him. 

It’s been a while since he's done this. Arthur usually lets Alfred lead, partly because that’s what is expected of him, mostly because his husband _is_ rather good with his cock. And Arthur likes being spoiled, likes being able to entrust his pleasure to another, but it’s still fun sometimes, to do the opposite and reduce Alfred to stuttering pleas and low moans.

He'd blindfolded Alfred on a whim (sacrificing a spare scarf that had been left on the bed) and the contrast between tanned skin and golden hair and dark silk is _stunning_. Arthur presses featherlight kisses to Alfred’s cheek just below it, deliberately straightening his back so that his husband has to crane back to let him. Alfred, he had found during a rather enjoyable rendezvous in their youth, has a bit of a _thing_ about looking up. He wasn't ridiculously tall, but he did have a few inches on most people (Arthur included) and Arthur supposes that it’s partly the novelty. Regardless, it was fortunate, because Arthur quite liked looking down and especially liked looking down at Alfred.

He shifts again, grinding his own cock into Alfred’s taut stomach with a sigh. “You aren't being very convincing, love. I told you -” Here, Arthur pushes himself up on his knees and then sinks down again in a crude mimicry of penetration, dragging a strangled sound out of his husband. “You're going have to be a bit louder if you want me to fuck you.”

He lets go of Alfred’s hair to run his hands over the planes of his heaving chest, flicking absently at a pert nipple. He half-wishes that he had removed Alfred’s trousers, or at least paused to shove it off his hips proper. The fabric was scratchy against his thighs, rasping along his skin as he moved and it was starting to chafe. At least he’d taken off his own clothes.

“D-damnit, Art-”

“Come now,” he coaxes, pinching that nipple just to make Alfred jump. “I didn't gag you for a reason, you know. Do you even _want_ to fuck me?”

He pauses, because his next idea is a bit mean, but with Alfred being so stubborn, Arthur supposes he could be excused for cheating a little. 

“Fine, then,” he says, right into Alfred’s ear, ignoring the little twitch as he breathes hotly onto it. The makeshift blindfold is sweat-damp against his cheek. “I suppose I’ll have to do it myself.”

“Wha-” Alfred begins to say, only to shut up quickly as he gets the picture. 

Arthur has to close his eyes briefly as he presses two fingers into himself but doesn't cry out; he isn't too vocal outside his heats (not unless Alfred did something _particularly_ well), but he's wet enough already that it’s easy. Terribly, exhilaratingly easy as he fucks himself on his own fingers, clinging to one broad shoulder for balance. 

And the effect on his husband was gratifying; Alfred had gone rigid and then _snarled_ , viciously enough that Arthur actually feels the sharp thrill of instinctive fear down his spine. 

“Better,” he decides, breathless in spite of himself, and Alfred bites him. Not very hard, and there's a moment where he bumps clumsily into Arthur’s chin before getting his bearings, but it still makes Arthur’s bottom lip sting and he's startled enough that his fingers jerk involuntarily, drawing a low moan from his throat. 

Finally. About time Alfred started pushing back. Arthur had been wondering if he should be worried. 

“What’s wrong?” Arthur goads, pushing and pushing and waiting for Alfred to break and throw him back onto the bed and fuck him stupid. He can't see Alfred’s eyes, but he can pretend and he does, thinking of bright blue eyes gone hazy with pleasure and darkening with every taunt. 

It takes a truly _obscene_ moan right into Alfred’s ear, a breathless comment - _if you wouldn't fuck me properly, then maybe I should find someone who can -_ because even with Alfred beneath him, there's a small ugly part of him still thinking of coy smiles and fluttering lashes and perfumed silks juxtaposed against the backdrop of his own calloused fingers and no-nonsense attire. It’s silly and ridiculous but he just… he thinks that it might be _reassurance_ he's after. That Alfred wants him and him alone, so much that anyone else having him is unbearable.

He refocused as Alfred goes dangerously still. “You won't.” 

Tasting victory, Arthur smiles, sharp-edged and precise, making sure that his husband can feel it against his jaw. The blindfold is starting to slip off. Arthur makes no move to fix it. “Won't I?” He winds an arm around Alfred’s neck, humming. “The little soldier staring at me earlier did look very nice. Filled out his uniform _very_ well.”

Alfred does nothing, says nothing, but his muscles are tensing, coiling like a predator about to strike. (There had been soldiers before, yes, but none that were so bold as to actually approach him. Alfred doesn't know that though.) Arthur goes on fingering himself, almost moaning now.

“I could find him later. Catch him in the barracks or the dining hall and take him somewhere private. He looked shy. Sweet. Maybe I’ll let him have me against the wall or over a desk or -”

Alfred cuts him off with a snarl and then the world lurches and all the air is being driven from Arthur’s lungs in a stunned gasp as Alfred flips them over and slams him into the mattress, hard enough that the bed creaks and Arthur’s ribs protest. “Al- _ah_!”

“Don't you fucking _dare_ ,” Alfred snarls against his mouth, blindfold now hanging loosely around his neck, and then kisses him, harsh and deep and almost _desperately_ , forcing Arthur still and crushing their lips together when he tries to reply. Seeing as this was what Arthur had been after from the start, he goes limp and lets Alfred ravage him, moaning into the kiss when rough hands land on his hips - Alfred had clearly gotten free of his paltry restrains - before Arthur abruptly remembers that he has one arm folded awkwardly underneath himself and his own fingers still buried in his arse. 

“Wait,” he tries to say when Alfred stops kissing him in order to breathe, but only manages a strangled moan when his husband shoves two thick fingers into him, heedless of the ones already there. 

The sudden stretch _burns_ and Arthur cries out, tries to withdraw his own hand only for his arm to spasm uselessly as Alfred curls his fingers roughly. It’s too soon and Arthur feels too _full_ , gasping and writhing and scrabbling frantically at whatever skin he can reach with his free hand just to ground himself.

He’s balanced precariously on the knife’s edge of pleasure and pain and Alfred seems to plan on keeping him there because Arthur has only begun to loosen, stretching to accommodate the width of both their fingers, when Alfred forces another into him. 

Fuck. Arthur gives a choked moan that feels like it’s been torn from his throat. _Too much, too much_ , they usually stopped at _three_ , have never even gone past four before and now Arthur feels like one wrong move and he could split apart. 

“O-oh gods, wait, I- I can't… can't…” 

Arthur pushes weakly at his shoulder and Alfred pins him down with a hand feels like a brand around his wrist, searing him through. He can barely move, stuffed full and trapped under Alfred’s weight, but there's a horrible aching thing at the pit of his stomach that’s _purring_ at the rough handling. 

“ _Alfred_ ,” he rasps because the look on that handsome face was all wrong, Alfred didn't snarl at him like that, didn't bare his teeth like he was about to rip out someone’s throat, twisted rage lighting up dark blue eyes, and Arthur _liked_ it, was so goddamned hard it hurt. He parts his lips, scrambling for something, anything, that would prolong the treatment because he’s too far gone to even care if his husband breaks him in half.

But then Alfred’s dragging their fingers out of him with a growl and Arthur feels bereft, loose and empty and needy after all that heat and almost-painful fullness. He starts to whine in protest and doesn't even manage a full syllable before Alfred’s wrapping big hands around his ankles and wrenching him forward and - oh gods, _yes_ \- thrusting into him in a single motion. 

Alfred kisses him again, swallowing Arthur’s silent scream, so aggressive that it feels like he's trying to fuck Arthur’s mouth with his tongue, trying to steal any words Arthur might have tried to speak. Not that Arthur could have. It’s just heat and pressure and friction and Alfred’s cock carving a path inside him and it’s all so perfectly _too much_ that he’s lost in the sensation, can't get enough air to even moan. 

Alfred’s talking, his voice low and rough and curling around Arthur’s fuzzy thoughts like woodsmoke. His scent was _everywhere_ and Arthur could drown in it, could barely focus on the words that Alfred’s breathing into his skin. 

“So fucking _wet_ for me, aren't you, _sweetheart_ -” A vicious thrust that drives the last few inches of Alfred’s cock into him, their hips pressed flush. He has Arthur bent almost in half, legs hooked over his shoulders and both his hands are wrapped around Arthur’s wrists now, trapping them to the bed by his head. Arthur writhes in his grasp - not to get away, just to relieve some of the ache, but Alfred’s grip tightens anyway and he thrusts again, less quickly but every bit as violent. Slow and inexorable and inescapable, and Arthur finds himself making a sound at a pitch he's never managed before. 

It seems to please Alfred at least because his husband immediately sets about forcing it out of him again, bites savagely at his neck and his collarbone and his shoulder in sharp starbursts of _pain_ that don't distract from the movement of his hips against Arthur’s in the least. 

“ _Ngh…_ r-right there... _!”_

“You like that?” Alfred asks, cruel, twisting his hips. Arthur just moans and lets his mouth fall open when Alfred kisses him again, biting harshly at his swollen lips even as his thrusts get sloppier, that unforgiving rhythm starting to fall apart. Alfred hasn't even touched his cock but Arthur could come like this, from the jealous fury in bright blue eyes as he’s pounded into the mattress, from the sensation of his dripping cock rubbing against Alfred’s belly as he moves. “ _Mine-_ you're _mine,_ Arthur, and no one else gets to see you like this-”

“ _Y-yes_ ,” because that’s all Arthur can say, really, almost sobbing when the tip of Alfred’s cock drags over his prostate. He's almost blind with pleasure, his vision a wash of light and colour as he gives a final mangled moan and _comes_. So hard he almost blacks out, is only barely aware of the sudden flood of warm wetness inside him as his desperate, clenching orgasm pushes Alfred over the edge as well. He's almost quiet about it, only muffling a moan into Arthur’s shoulder as he finishes. Arthur isn't, but fortunately, he doesn't particularly care that he's more or less just alerted the rest of the castle to their indiscretions. Or, well. The parts of the castle that hadn't already been tipped off by Alfred’s earlier cries, that is. It isn't even funny, but the faint, half-hysterical giggle slips out of him anyway. 

He _oof_ s a little when his husband flops down on top of him but goes obligingly limp, too sated to care that Alfred’s weight is slowly crushing him. Asphyxiation seemed a small price to pay for an orgasm like that. It doesn't hurt that Arthur’s still spasming slightly, pleasurable little aftershocks running through him like waves. Alfred has curled around him like a cat, tangling their legs together and wrapping long arms around his torso almost possessively. They're both sticky with sweat and come, but the bed is soft underneath him and his husband is all but soaking him with body heat so Arthur just sighs contentedly when Alfred presses his face into the crook of his neck and lolls his head back to accommodate him. 

Then -

“Who was it?” 

Arthur makes a small, drowsy noise. “Mmf?” He rouses somewhat at Alfred’s quiet growl; stirs and tries to shake his thoughts back into some semblance of order. “What?”

Alfred doesn't seem to hear. “What did he say to you? I’ll fucking kill him.” 

His arms have tightened, but not enough to hurt and Arthur blinks before remembering. “Oh. Oh! That wouldn't be necessary, dear.”

“Is so,” Alfred mumbles back, almost… sulkily? He shifts around as if trying to crush their bodies even closer and Arthur winces as the motion jostles him. It’s faint, but Alfred catches it and pauses. “Fuck. Are you okay?”

“More than,” Arthur tells him because it’s true, and then has to tangle a hand in Alfred’s hair to keep him in place when his husband - clearly remembering his earlier rough treatment - makes to get up anyway. “No, stay there, you ninny. I’m fine.” 

Well. For a given definition of _fine_. From the soreness of his hips and back and… well, everywhere, Arthur’s not going to be walking properly for a while, but he finds he quite likes the thought actually. And he still has to keep his husband from finding and scaring some poor boy out of his wits. 

He pulls gently at Alfred’s hair again. “And no cornering your soldiers either. You know I didn't mean any of it.” 

It’s playful, because he doesn't think Alfred actually meant it either. Why would he? Alfred’s gorgeous, the bloody King of Spades. People worship the ground he walks on. He’s perfect and it’s laughable to think that he could feel threatened by some no-name soldier checking Arthur out as he walks past. 

Alfred doesn't laugh though. 

He just mumbles something, too quietly to be heard, and then buries his face in Arthur’s neck again, clearly unhappy.

“Alfred? What’s wrong, love?”

Mumble, mumble. 

It takes a fair bit of coaxing to get Alfred to stop hiding and Arthur still has to put his hands on either side of his husband’s face to keep him from escaping again once he succeeds. Alfred stubbornly refuses to meet his eyes. 

His face was decidedly red. 

Lips twitching, Arthur squishes his cheeks just to make him squawk and flail. “Oh, come now, you do know I wasn't being serious, right?”

“I _know_!” Oh, he's pouting now. Arthur finds it wholely adorable and so he tugs Alfred in to plant a small kiss on the tip of his nose, feeling rather unbearably sappy. 

This just makes Alfred blush harder, wriggling free to hide his face again. “I didn't - it’s just - people keep _looking_ at you and I just… that kinda just happened -”

Oh. 

Truly smiling now, Arthur rolls them over (with some difficulty, seeing as Alfred was _heavy_ ) and looks down at his surprised face.

“You're an idiot,” he tells his husband fondly and then kisses him. 

  
  


Well, to be fair, Arthur supposes that he was a bit of an idiot himself when it came to Alfred. 

  
  



End file.
